


All Four Bodies of the Sky Burn Above Us

by azephirin



Series: Born a Girl [1]
Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Best Friends, F/M, First Time, Gender Related, Loss of Virginity, Safer Sex, girl!Johnny Weir
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-26
Updated: 2010-03-26
Packaged: 2017-10-08 08:10:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/74503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azephirin/pseuds/azephirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>That is all I had to do, that evening, to accept the gift I had longed for....</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	All Four Bodies of the Sky Burn Above Us

**Author's Note:**

>   
> **Warning:** underage-ish (16 and 17 respectively) people getting it on nonexplicitly  
> **Disclaimer**: For a variety of reasons, this never happened.  
> **Author's note:** This is probably mildly AU (apart from the whole bit where Johnny Weir isn't actually female), as I don't know how well acquainted Lambiel and Weir really were at this point in their lives. Thanks to various assorted miscreants on my flist (names redacted to protect the ~~guilty~~ innocent) for audiencing. The title is from "[Topography](http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/index.php?date=2002/11/19)" and the summary is from "[The Wedding Vow](http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/index.php?date=2008/11/12)," both by Sharon Olds.

On a rainy night in November, after months of emails and IM conversations, the phone when they have cards or a little bit of money saved, after a great deal of coordination and planning to ensure that their mothers will be out at dinner and a symphony concert for a predetermined and fixed period, Joey opens the door to her hotel room and lets Stéphane in.

It’s a hotel that caters to Americans, and the rooms are pretty small but they were still able to get a suite: one exterior door and one bathroom, but a living room (where her mom is sleeping, on a daybed) and a bedroom (where Joey is sleeping, because her mom says she should be well-rested for competition). You have to go through both rooms to get to the bathroom, but otherwise it’s a nice place. Paris, for its part, is probably a pretty awesome location to lose your virginity in that rose-petals-and-romantic-kisses-by-the-Eiffel-Tower sort of way, but when Joey closes the door and pushes Stéphane against the wall, she’s mostly thinking that it’s as good a place as any to get it on with Stéphane.

Finally.

Stéphane goes willingly, burying his fingers in her hair, newly cropped short the way she’s wanted for years. He kisses her like he might not get the chance to ever again. But she intends to give him plenty of chances, and so she pulls away and points to the bedroom and says, “Come on.” He blushes, and she grins. “Scared?” she asks, running her hands down his sides.

“No!” he avows, then relents, “Well, perhaps a little.”

“It’s just us,” she says. “You know me better than anybody except my family, and maybe even them too. You’re my best friend. There’s nobody else I’d rather do this with.”

He’s still blushing, but his smile is immediate and affectionate when he says, “It is the same for me. There is no one else.”

They get as far as the doorway before they have to stop to kiss again, Joey against the doorjamb, Stéphane’s thigh between hers. There’s something pressing against her, and Joey realizes with a shock that he’s hard. Which, OK, shouldn’t be a surprise—he’s a sixteen-year-old guy—but it’s never been directed at her before.

She arches her hips to meet its pressure, and Stéphane breaks the kiss to make a surprised, vulnerable sound. They manage to get far enough into the bedroom to close the door, but they don’t move over toward the bed just yet. The bed is a commitment, and Joey’s pretty committed to this project, but maybe she’s not ready to put that stamp on it just yet. She is, however, ready to put her hands on the warm skin beneath his shirt, to slide them up his back. As if complying with an unspoken order, he raises his arms, and they pull the shirt off. He’s revealed to her, his rangy arms and architectural collarbones, the silken smoothness of skin. She’s wearing one of her dad’s old dress shirts, like always when she’s not in training gear; she forwent a bra because, really, who’s she trying to fool here? Stéphane unbuttons the shirt carefully, one at a time, as though he’s unwrapping an unknown but welcome gift.

As much as this is the most preplanned virginity loss ever, you can’t account for everything, and while Joey knew that sex would likely involve Stéphane seeing her naked, it only dawns on her when Stéphane pushes the shirt off her shoulders that he’s going to see her _naked_. They’ve fooled around before, but with their clothes on and with limited time and opportunity; they don’t train together or share a locker room because of the whole boy/girl thing, so while Joey’s seen every ranked female junior figure skater in the world naked at least twice, she’s never even seen Stéphane shirtless.

He’s lanky, uncertain, beautiful.

He undoes the top button of her jeans, and that’s when she freaks and takes a step back, crossing her arms over her chest. “You’re going to see my stomach!” she blurts out, and then it occurs to her that he already has: she wears her jeans down on her hips. “And my butt,” she adds, and looks away from him.

“I hope so,” he says, looking a little bewildered. “You will see mine too. You can already see my stomach.” He holds his arms away from himself, as if to demonstrate.

“Yeah, but yours is hot,” she grumbles.

“Yours as well,” he says. “Although I wish you would not cover it up.”

She takes a breath and lowers her arms. He stares reverently.

And not at her stomach.

“It’s like you’ve never seen a pair before,” she says, more snappishly than she intends.

“They did not belong to you,” he breathes.

She laughs and takes a step forward to kiss him. He wraps his arms around her, and when one of his hands makes its way to her butt after a while, she can’t bring herself to mind.

She’s got both of hers on his, after all.

The first time is awkward—no two ways about it. She lost her hymen riding when she was a kid, so that’s at least one less thing to worry about, but it still hurts a little, and the condom is weird, and she thinks she’s probably not wet enough. It’s also over pretty quickly, for good or for ill.

It’s awkward again when Stéphane gets up to throw away the condom and bring a washcloth—apparently she was wet enough to need that, if nothing else—and when he sits back down next to her on the bed, he puts his arm around her tentatively, as though she might hit him for this piece of affection. “I think…we do not have to try that again if you don’t want to.”

“Do you not want to?” she fires back, ready to be insulted, because, hello, he’s her best friend and she just gave him her virtue, and that better not be all there is to it.

He blushes and shifts his eyes down to where he’s picking at a thread in the duvet cover. “No— I mean, yes! I do want to. Just”—he pauses, either to figure out what he wants to say or to get the English syntax right, or both—“not if you do not. If it will hurt you.”

“I’m not a big expert here,” Joey says, “but I think it’s one of those things that you don’t usually get right the first time you try it. Like skating. The first time I did that, I fell on my ass.”

“You landed an axel in your first week,” he says sourly.

“Yeah, but I still fell on my ass. A lot. And if I hadn’t gotten up and tried it again, we wouldn’t be sitting here right now.”

They lie under the duvet for a while, just kissing and getting used to the texture of each other, and then they try again. The second time is better. The third time is good. The fourth time, Stéphane figures out how to use his tongue, and Joey’s pretty sure she screams the walls down.

The fourth time is _awesome_.

The plan does not call for him to sleep here, because at some point their moms will come back, and hers will want to use the bathroom and Stéphane’s will wonder where he is. Joey’s pretty sure she’d die of embarrassment if Stéphane’s mom were to find out—that is, if Fernanda Lambiel didn’t kill her first for deflowering her _principezinho_.

But they’ve had quite a workout, and Joey’s kind of tired. Stéphane’s eyes are drooping, too, his long lashes fluttering against his cheeks, and Joey thinks that maybe just a little nap would be good. Wrapped around each other under the thick duvet, warm and close. Just a little nap, and then she’ll kick him out and take a shower and act like nothing happened. A little nap.

  


+||+||+

Joey wakes up with the muddy feeling of emerging from a deep sleep. She’s spooning Stéphane, which is actually pretty hilarious, but they’re the exact same height, so it works. She yawns and looks at the clock.

It’s 2:34 a.m.

“Shit!” she hisses, and shakes Stéphane, who mutters something in French and curls up tighter. “Wake up! It’s two-thirty a.m.!”

_“Putain!”_ He sits up. He shakes his head, as if dislodging one language to allow another to enter, and says, “Did your mother see us?”

“I don’t know! I mean, I guess not. I didn’t hear her come in, and she obviously didn’t wake us up.” It occurs to Joey that maybe her mother didn’t come back, which is worrisome—she’s not the stay-out-all-night-and-paint-Paris-red type. “Let me peek out and check.” She pulls on sweatpants and a T-shirt, and opens the connecting door as quietly as she can. There’s not much light in either room, but she can make out the lump of her mother asleep in the daybed. Joey exhales, relieved and terrified at once, and closes the door silently. “The only way out is through her room,” she says to Stéphane, who responds with a look of near-panic. “I guess…you’ll have to tiptoe? I don’t know! But at some point she’s going to need to pee, and you can’t hide in the closet all night.”

He bites his lip as if trying not to smile, but then the horror takes over again. “She will kill me if she sees me!”

“I actually think it’s your mom who’s more likely to murder me. Plus, I’m older.”

“Yes, but you are a girl,” he says as he pulls on his jeans.

Joey makes a face. “Not a very good one.”

He pulls his shirt on and kisses her. “My favorite one.”

She rolls her eyes.

Stéphane opens the connecting door slowly, soundlessly, and, shoes in hand, glides across the floor. Joey’s mother doesn’t move—she sleeps pretty soundly—but there’s no way to close the exterior door silently, and Joey flinches at the tiny noises of the deadbolt unlatching and the handle turning.

Stéphane slips out and closes the door. Joey almost faints in relief, and starts to close the connecting door.

“Joey?” her mother says.

Joey’s not smooth. What comes out of her mouth is, again, “Shit!”

Her mother turns on the bedside lamp and they look at each other for a moment.

Joey crosses her arms. “That was totally my imaginary ghostly friend and that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.”

Her mother actually laughs. “Joey, that wasn’t anybody but Stéphane Lambiel.”

“Shit,” Joey says again, with feeling, and her mom says, “Language.”

“We were watching movies and we fell asleep,” Joey tries.

Her mother raises an eyebrow. “Naked?”

Joey’s not sure whether it’s possible to blush and faint at the same time, but it kind of feels like her face is turning red while all the blood in her body simultaneously drains to her feet. “You didn’t see that!”

“I have to go through your room to get to the bathroom,” her mother reminds her. “Joey,” she starts, and then stops. After a pause, she begins again, “I hope— that you were safe.”

“Yeah,” Joey says. “We were.”

Her mom pats the other end of the daybed, both welcoming and commanding at once, and Joey goes and sits gingerly.

“Was he your first?”

Joey nods.

“Are you going to marry him?”

“Mom, I’m seventeen!”

“I didn’t mean right this minute,” her mom mutters.

Joey sighs. “I love him, if that’s what you’re asking. I mean, he’s Stéphane. He’s really smart and really Swiss and kind of neurotic. And he doesn’t think that I’m weird, or not girly enough. He likes me how I am, which…sometimes people don’t.” Her mom nods, and then suddenly covers her face, and Joey realizes that she’s crying. “Mom, I’m sorry!” she says, alarmed. “I didn’t— I’m sorry! I didn’t mean for you to find out!”

Her mother looks up then and laughs a little. “I’m sure you didn’t, honey. But that’s not— well, if you ever have children—”

“Blech,” Joey says.

“They’re not so terrible,” her mother says, with an actual smile. “But, anyway, what I was going to say is, there’s a certain point when you realize that their decisions are their own, and you just have to hope they’re good ones. For what it’s worth,” she adds, “I like Stéphane. You know that. I just wish…it had been someone who was more of a regular in your life.”

“He is a regular in my life,” Joey protests. “Just not in person a lot of the time.”

Her mom makes a sort of shrug, which Joey knows to be half acquiescence, half unwillingness to continue the argument. “I told Fernanda that you two had, in fact, fallen asleep watching movies, and that I’d send Stéphane back when you woke up. I don’t know whether she believed me, but it at least kept her from calling Interpol.”

“Oh, God,” Joey says. “She was probably ready to launch a missing-persons investigation when she got back and Stéphane wasn’t there. I’m never going to be able to look her in the eye again. But thanks for not telling her the truth and getting me killed.”

Her mother, notably, does not disagree with that assessment, and Joey decides this is a good time to retreat. She rubs her eyes, tiredness unfeigned. “I’m going to take a shower and get some sleep.”

Her mother nods, and then it seems to dawn on her why exactly Joey might need a shower, and her mouth gets a little tight. But she doesn’t say anything beyond, “Sure, honey,” and she hugs Joey for a long time before Joey gets up.

Joey’s in the doorway when it occurs to her. “Why didn’t you wake us up? I mean, I appreciate being spared the you’re-in-bed-with-my-daughter scene, but it seems like that’s what most people would have done.”

“You looked peaceful,” her mother says simply. “And you don’t look that way often enough.”

**Author's Note:**

> For reasons unknown to me, I started wondering what a female version of Johnny Weir would be like. On the one hand, you could have a girl who's sparkly and fierce and a little bitchy and badass—a slightly more human Lady GaGa on ice, or a riot grrl figure-skater, which would rock my world. But, basically, transplanting Weir's personality and aesthetic traits onto a female. But, on the other hand, what's most interesting to me about Johnny Weir is how much he blurs gender lines: In terms of his skating style, he brings a grace and elegance that have typically been considered virtues of women's skating; his focus on personal aesthetics, particularly makeup and costume design, is also traditionally more feminine. So what would happen if you had a woman crossing lines like that? The boy version brought a focus on art into men's skating; what if the girl version brought a focus on athleticism into women's? I like to think of a strong, sleek person, with extremely understated costumes—tailored and black, drawing the watcher's eye to her form rather than to any ornament. Cropped hair (so as not to break the visual line); makeup sufficient to keep the cameras from flattening her facial features, but no more than that. A graceful dark creature in a room of peacocks. Unfortunately, though I have several scenes outlined in my head, what showed up first was not the commentary on gender roles and expectations in figure skating, but rather the devirginizing porn. Um, oops?
> 
>  
> 
> **This story has a sequel:** [Slow Boats and False Starts](http://archiveofourown.org/works/80873)


End file.
